


Spent Gladiator

by AceyEnn



Series: August And Everything After [4]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: ADHD, Abuse, Adoption, Anxiety, Attempted Sexual Assault, Borderline Personality Disorder, Bullying, Foster Care, Gen, Identity Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, parental abandonment, someone pls hug this purble, underage mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceyEnn/pseuds/AceyEnn
Summary: Amethyst knew from the beginning that she was a mistake.(Set mostly before Pearl, Interrupted.)
Relationships: background Jasper/Lapis Lazuli, past Amethyst/OC
Series: August And Everything After [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796716
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Spent Gladiator

**Author's Note:**

> HOO BOY I HAD FUN WITH THIS ONE.
> 
> As a warning, in addition to the obvious themes of child abuse, this side story includes a scene of a probable attempt at sexual assault. It's not explicit and the target gets away, but I know damn well that shit like that can be really upsetting, so I figured I should warn for it here as well as in the tags.

Your name is absolutely _not_ Amy Klein.

At one point, it was. At one point, you heard it screamed at you on a daily basis. But it's not your name _anymore_ , and if anyone ever calls you that again, you’re pretty sure you're gonna kick them in the junk.

\---

Your mother had made it very clear from a young age that she never wanted you. 

You're four years old now, and you're hungry and can't sleep, so you open your bedroom door as quietly as possible and sneak on tiptoe into the kitchen. You glance at the digital clock on the oven--it's two in the morning. If you're very quiet, you won't wake her. 

You open up the fridge slowly, deliberately, careful to make as little sound as possible. There's not a ton inside. There never is. You can't help but feel a bit disappointed anyway. 

You grab a cup of yogurt. You don't know when she bought it, and you still can't read, so you just hope it's safe to eat. You don't bother with a spoon--digging through the cutlery drawer would make too much noise. (You can't wake her. You _cannot._ )

Triumphant, you carefully close the refrigerator door, and tiptoe back to your room. You almost make it.

Then you trip over your feet, dropping the cup, and you shout without meaning to, and she's there, yelling at you, pulling you up roughly and shaking you by the shoulders.

“Amy, I've told you a million times--”

“Mommy, I'm--”

“No excuses.” She lets go of your shoulders then, and you crash to the floor all over again. 

That's the first time you can recall that she tells you about how she would've aborted you in a heartbeat if she'd had the money, how she never even wanted a child at all, much less a disobedient _idiot_ like you. It's far from the last. 

You apologize, and she just turns and walks back into her room without a word, leaving you there on the floor. You injured your foot somehow in the fall, and when you try to stand on it, you just fall down again. You whimper a bit, tears filling your eyes.

That's where you sleep that night, in the hallway of a filthy house that you never really belonged in. 

(It's your earliest clear memory.)

\---

You don't know who your dad is. 

When your kindergarten teacher has you do a Father's Day project, you break down, throwing a tantrum. It's not _fair._ You never _had_ a father, not a _real_ one.

At first, you thought maybe Robert, the guy who was always around when you were a toddler, who left just before your fourth birthday, was your biological dad. But no, you realize it couldn't have been. Your mother is white and so was he, and your skin is significantly darker than either of theirs'. 

(One day, you'll find yourself taking solace in the fact that you look nothing like her. You got her dirty blonde hair, and nothing else.)

There's been a lot of men streaming in and out of your house your whole life, and you don't remember most of them. They're just...faces. Some of them, you see all the time. Some just pop by occasionally. Most of them, you never see again.

You wonder what it's like to have parents that love you.

\---

You're seven when you and your mom go to downtown Bayburg. You've never been, and you're incredibly excited, unable to stop wiggling in the back seat of the car.

“Fucking _stop_ , Amy.”

“Why?”

“Because I _said so._ ”

She says that a lot. It's never made sense to you. (You know better by now than to say that, though.)

You're able to comply for a few minutes, but soon you find yourself kicking your legs back and forth. It's almost impossible _not_ to move. You're restless, and you squirm in your seat. 

“ _Amy_!”

“Sorry, Mommy.”

You pull into the parking lot of a shopping center, and you get out of the car. You begin to follow your mom into a store, but she stops you.

“You just wait in the toy store over there,” she says, gesturing to the shop in question. So you shrug, and you wander in.

You never had many toys, and the bright colors and soft textures of the shop are overwhelmingly exciting. You manage to entertain yourself for quite a while, playing with various displays, stroking various stuffed animals. You don't know how long you're in there before the clerk comes up to you.

“Sweetie, where are your parents? You're awfully little to be alone.”

You shrug. “I’unno,” you reply, not really looking up from the toy piano you've been playing with. 

The clerk seems to freak out at that. “We're taking you to security, okay, kiddo? We'll find them for you.” Her voice is soft and gentle, so different from your mother’s. She takes your wrist and you stand, and she leads you to a small office.

The security guard is a big, gruff-looking man, but he's kind to you. He gives you a lollipop, and you happily suck on it as he asks you questions. 

You don't know the answers to any of them.

After more futile questioning on his end, the guard takes you by the hand to the parking lot. “Okay, which one of these cars is your mommy’s?”

You scan the lot. Her car isn't there. “Uh...none of them.”

(It doesn't hit you immediately. In fact, it doesn't hit you until the cops show up, asking more questions. You're scared--they're not being as nice as the clerk or the security guard. 

Eventually, it truly dawns on you that your mother just…left without you, and you curl up on the ground sobbing, screaming, _terrified._ )

\---

For years, you're shuffled from house to house, foster family to foster family. Sometimes you wish you could stay; usually, you don't. You dearly want stability, but most of the homes you stay in have such strict, strange rules, and they chafe. Even when you're trying your best to behave, you fuck up. 

You arrive at the first home with no possessions, save for the clothes on your back and a teddy bear the toy shop clerk gave you out of pity. Everything else you'd ever owned, not that there was ever much to begin with, is at your biological mother's house, and even as a small child, you're aware you'll never get any of it back.

You only last there six months, before the social workers show up again and announce that you're moving again. Apparently your foster parents decided you were too rowdy, too difficult. The rejection stings, and you weep as you get in the worker’s car with a trash bag full of clothes.

\---

It becomes a pattern. You get sent to a new home, and usually things are fine at first, and then you break some stupid rule or another and things stop being fine. They always do. They take you to another town, another school, and you never manage to maintain a single friendship--how can you when you keep getting pulled out of school mid-year?

You're nine years old when you're moved to a group home. You're the youngest kid there, and you're short for your age, so you're scared at first. What if they bully you? Plenty of other kids have.

It's a huge surprise, then, that you get on with the other girls in the house famously. 

Carmen, the only one your age, is thrilled to not be the shortest kid there anymore, and you're not even upset. She likes to pick you up and carry you around, and you wonder how much muscle is underneath her chubby arms. 

Jasmine is the oldest, tall and skinny and laid-back. She teases you sometimes, yes, but it's always in good fun. Besides, you give as good as you get. 

Chip, Jay, and Gina are sisters by blood, and one day Jay confides in you that they're here because their parents died a few years back. They didn't have any surviving extended family, so they were placed here.

“I miss ‘em a lot,” Jay admits.

“Why?” you ask.

She looks a bit taken aback. “I loved them, and they loved me.”

“What's that like?”

Jay wraps you into a big bear hug, and cries into your shoulder. “You deserve better, Amy,” she sobs. “You deserve a _real_ family.”

The name sends a jolt of panic through you, and you frantically pull away from the hug. Jay looks at you in confusion--she seems a bit hurt.

“I don't like my name,” you whisper. “It makes me think of my mom yelling at me.” 

“Then you need a new one,” Jay replies, brightening just a bit. “A _better_ one.”

You sit down with the other girls that night. Jasmine has a pen and paper out, and she writes down potential names as you talk them out--you want something slightly similar, just to ease the transition. A middle ground of sorts. 

Amanda? No, that doesn't fit. Amber? Nah. Amelia? Fuck no.

It's then that Chip speaks up. “Hey, remind me when your birthday is, kiddo?”

“Uh, February 18th.”

“Okay, that's perfect. I _thought_ it was in February.” She grins. “And didn't you say purple’s your favorite color?”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Then how about Amethyst? Y'know, since it's your birthstone _and_ you love the color?”

You think for a moment. Yes. You like that, you think. It might just fit.

“Can you try calling me that?” you finally squeak out.

“Sure thing, Amethyst!” Carmen chirps.

Yeah. This is right. 

Your name is not Amy. Your name is _Amethyst_.

\---

Getting kicked from that home three years later, after a long period of strained relations with the couple running the place, is arguably even worse than your mother’s abandonment. It was your longest placement by far, and the other residents were like sisters to you. 

As you leave, Gina hands you a little package, wrapped in shimmery purple paper. “Here, Amethyst,” she says, and she gives you one last hug. “We love you, okay?”

You sit in the car, trying so hard not to cry, and open the gift. It's a box, and you rip it open, revealing a little pink lion plush.

When you arrive at the next house--the home of Antonio and Andrea Diaz--you clutch the lion to your chest, as if it will protect you from any harm that might befall you there. You drag your bag behind you, nearly ripping it open on the pavement. 

You're twelve years old, almost a teenager, and you're holding onto the plushie like a lifeline.

\---

The Diazes _love_ you. It's unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable. 

Andrea homeschools you for the latter half of sixth grade, having concluded that you don't need your life upheaved any more than it's already been. It's tough enough to adjust to a new home, after all, and a new school would--and always did--complicate things.

You don't fully comprehend why she's willing to help you when you struggle with your work, or why she and Antonio comfort you when you wake up in the middle of the night screaming from a nightmare, or why they promise that you don't need to hide food in your room if you're hungry, or why they get you a big purple canvas backpack to carry your things in. You _definitely_ don't comprehend why, on your thirteenth birthday, they ask you if you'd like to stay, and if they can adopt you.

“You don't want me. Trust me.”

“But we _do,_ ” Andrea sighs, brushing a lock of hair from in front of your eye. (You've been growing it out--it's never been much past your chin in the past, but it's since grown past your shoulders, and you like it that way. You want to see how long you can get it.) “I'm serious, Amethyst. We want to make you our daughter officially.”

“Your...daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you fucking with me?” You stare at her wide-eyed. You don't believe her. No one could ever want you. You're just a big mistake.

“I promise you, honey. I'm not.”

She hugs you tightly, and after a pause, you hug her back. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make any _fucking_ sense.

When the adoption is finalized, they let you legally change your name. (Your name is _not_ Amy Klein. Your name is Amethyst Diaz.)

\---

You meet Laura on your first day of eighth grade. She's a skinny blonde girl with big blue eyes, and she is, for lack of a better phrase, _smoking hot._

Huh. You'd never really been attracted to anyone, but here you are, with a crush on another girl. 

You end up in gym class with her two years later. She's pretty and popular, so unlike you. You're insecure about everything about yourself, from your weight to your height to your hair, and she carries herself with a sort of confidence that you find extremely attractive.

You share your first kiss in the locker room with her, and when she begs you not to tell anyone, you keep quiet. You don't want to lose her.

You lose your virginity to her a few weeks later, but it's pretty clear from early on that calling her your _girlfriend_ wouldn't be accurate. She's often rude and condescending to you, always contradicting you and shooting down your ideas, and frankly she doesn't seem to actually like you that much. She just seems to want the kisses, the sex, and you’re willing to tolerate that at first in exchange for any sort of validation. 

But as the weeks turn to months, you grow to despise her. She's such a _cunt_ , just a fucking bully who happens to think you're vaguely attractive, and one day, you blow up at her. You don't even remember why.

“Just drop dead, bitch!” you scream. “You fucking asshole! I hate you, I never want to see your goddamn face again--”

“Fine then,” she responds with a shrug. You clench your fist, fully prepared to punch her smug face in, but think better of it, and instead opt to flee.

When you arrive at school the next day, the rumor mill is already swirling, and everyone who was at least willing to talk to you before has shunned you entirely. 

\---

You spend most of your sophomore year dyeing your hair various shades of purple, being bullied by your classmates, getting in fistfights, and crashing house parties. You don't like anyone there, really, but you can usually at least drink the pain away, and there are enough people there who think you're hot enough to hook up with that you're able to use it almost as currency. By the end of the school year you've lost count of how many girls you've slept with; you experiment with boys a few times, but you quickly realize that you get nothing out of it, and wouldn't even if any of them had been able to get you off. 

The only person you talk to at all at school is Garnet, a senior you have band class with. You’re not sure you want to stick with band, but it's nice to have someone in your class who doesn't hate you. Granted, you talk very little--she's the quiet type--but when you do, it's not her calling you a slut or a bitch, so that's nice.

(Honestly, “slut” has become something of a badge of honor. It's not that you're actually at all _proud_ of your promiscuity, but you've discovered that if you _pretend_ you are, the verbal assaults are less painful.)

Of course, your reputation precedes you, and one day you find yourself cornered by a junior.

“What the fuck do you want, Nick?” you growl. Nick doesn't respond verbally. He just moves in closer, pinning you to the wall.

His hand finds your boob, and he squeezes, hard. You’re panicking, terrified of what he might do next--class is in session and the hallway is empty save for you two. For fuck’s sake, you were just heading back to art class after using the bathroom. 

You could scream, but what would he do then? Would he hurt you? What if he rapes you, or worse? He's always creeped you out; you wouldn't put it past him.

You kick him square in the crotch, causing him to vomit all over you and fall to the ground, and you run to the principal’s office. 

He only gets a three-day suspension--and so do you, just for defending yourself. 

When you get home, still shaking and covered in puke, you immediately take a shower, feeling unclean in more ways than just the literal. You scream into your pillow that night, and when Andrea--your mother, your _real_ mother--asks you what's wrong, you simply say you got suspended for getting into a fight. You don't want to worry her. She worries enough about you already.

The next morning, you dye your hair again, a darker shade of violet this time. You hate how it comes out, but the act of dyeing it is strangely cathartic. Like you're shedding yet another old attempt at an identity, filling the emptiness in your soul. Besides, you don't like your natural color. It's the one physical trait you ever shared with the chick who abandoned you. 

Your name is Amethyst Diaz, but you have no idea what that means, who _Amethyst_ really is, and you'll do anything to fill the void.

\---

Jasper is your dad’s brother’s kid, a tall, buff young woman a couple years your senior with immaculately bleached hair. You asked her for tips on dyeing it once, shortly after meeting her, and have followed those tips ever since. 

It was possibly the nicest interaction you ever had with her.

It's entirely too easy to piss her off, you've learned. Not too long after she gave you hair advice, you got into a fight, and it got physical.

You prod at the small indentation she left in your upper lip with your tongue. Every time you see her, you point it out, and your sixteenth birthday is no exception. 

It wasn't that you especially wanted her there. You wanted your _aunt and uncle_ there, because unlike their bitch of a daughter, they're sweet and they like you, but of course, she'd decided to tag along, and she brought her girlfriend with her.

You don't stay out in your back yard for long after the fighting starts, and when you've fled to your bedroom, to _safety_ , you take the box cutter lying atop your dresser and begin to slash away.

You started cutting at thirteen, and you despise yourself for still doing it. (You _especially_ despise yourself for going too deep once as a freshman, and your poor parents having to drive your stupid ass to the hospital for stitches.) But it's a type of pain _you_ have control over, something _you're_ causing, and so it gives you a twisted sense of comfort. 

You stare down at the gashes on your thighs, and with a sigh, you wash them off, patch yourself up. 

You don't want to _die_ , really, because that's too scary. You don't know what happens when you die, don't know what to _believe_ there, and the thought of going to Hell or being stuck here as a ghost is terrifying. (The thought of your consciousness being obliterated, of Amethyst simply ceasing to be, actually scares you less.)

You do, however, think that perhaps your bio-mom was right, and that aborting you would've been a good idea. You don't want to _die_ , but it would be nice to have not existed to begin with.

\---

It's not long after that that you get a psych evaluation, at your parents’ insistence. They've assured you repeatedly that they still love you, that they're not mad and they just want you to get the help you need, but in your heart you fear otherwise. Even after four years of living with them, three of being their legal daughter, you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. It always did in the past, after all.

You're ultimately diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, as well as generalized anxiety and ADHD. It explains far too much. That's why you've never been able to focus on schoolwork, why you can't hold down a decent friendship, why you're afraid all the fucking time. 

(It's your brain's fault that you're such a disaster, but you can't help but think it must be _your_ fault that your brain is like that in the first place, for being so fucking _weak._ ) 

You begin attending therapy towards the end of your sophomore year--biweekly individual sessions, and weekly group sessions with two other girls. One of those girls is Lapis. 

Jasper’s girlfriend. Or is she her ex right now? You never know if they're together or not until you're explicitly told. It's impossible to tell when they have constant vicious fights regardless of whether or not they're dating.

The other girl, Peridot, is abrasive and kind of weird, at least at first. (She's also a tad shorter than you, which, you have to admit, you love about her. You fully understand why Carmen was so excited about being taller than you now.) You learn quickly, though, that it's not purposeful jackassery, not like how _you_ are. She's just autistic and doesn't really _get_ how other people work, and she's just...trying to fit in. 

When you learn you attend the same high school, you ask her if she'd like to sit with you at lunch the next day, and she happily accepts. It becomes a whole _thing_ , a daily occurrence, and you soon realize that she's actually pretty cool. Okay, so she's actually a huge nerd, but she's a _cool_ huge nerd.

You're thrilled. You finally, _finally_ have a friend.

\---

You groan as you look at your report card. You're a junior now, and you're not passing _any_ of your classes. 

Despite what you keep telling yourself, you're not _dumb._ You're just not _interested,_ and you can't pay attention, or follow instructions easily, or write especially legibly. But you feel like a complete idiot, as you always do, and you're so tempted to rip the card to pieces and throw it into the fireplace.

You _want_ to do better, you truly do. It's just so _hard._

Peridot tutors you a bit, particularly in math and science, and she has the advantage of being someone you actually _like._ She's also far happier to give detailed explanations of concepts you don't get than your teachers, even when your questions must be incredibly stupid. You don't process it all, of course, but it's just enough to bump your final grades that year up to straight Cs. 

Peridot seems genuinely confused as to how that's a big deal in the slightest, but it's the best you've ever done. “Cs get degrees,” you tell her with a shrug. “If I graduate on time, I'll be happy.” You honestly suspect you _won't_ , but you leave that part out. 

(When you _do_ graduate a year later, along with the rest of your class, it comes as a genuine shock.)

You look her over. Peridot’s _cute_ , in a strange, mousy sort of way, and you're terrified that you're beginning to catch feelings. 

\---

The new girl at therapy is someone you've never spoken to in your life, but that you think you might vaguely recognize from school--a tall skinny redhead with a big nose. You never had classes with her or interacted with her in any way, but you seem to recall her sitting with Garnet at lunch, back before she graduated. 

When she gives her name, it's confirmed. She's that girl Garnet sometimes talked about--not often, only a handful of times, but the existence of their friendship, of Pearl herself, was one of the only things you truly _knew_ about Garnet. 

It hurts a bit when you ask if Garnet ever told you about her and she shakes her head, but you've gotten _very_ good at deflecting, at faking like you don't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks about you. It's all a facade, of course, but you're damn good at maintaining it most of the time. Better that people think of you as that skank who kicked Nick in the balls than as a stupid, scared little girl.

You don't really know what's beneath the front you put up. You're just a bundle of anxiety and self-hatred, and if you really have a personality, it's buried so deep you can't find it.

So you just smirk, tell Pearl you're awesome, and pretend you might believe it. 

**Author's Note:**

> AMETHYST MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS
> 
> A few notes:  
> -I gave the Famethyst different names to distinguish them from Amethyst and Jasper (and in Carnelian's case because that's a weird and improbable name even compared to the other gem names). Jasmine is Skinny, Carmen is Carnelian, Jay is 8XJ, Gina is 8XG, and Chip is the one with the chipped tooth.  
> -Nick and Laura are both named for actual shitty people who I would immediately punch if I saw them IRL. I mentioned Laura being my abuser's name when she was briefly mentioned in Pearl, Interrupted; Nick was my stalker. It felt right to name a couple of complete fucking douchebags after them.  
> -I picked Klein as Amethyst's birth surname for two reasons: I wanted to go with a German surname (due to the etymology of the word "kindergarten"), and it literally means "small."  
> -Yes, February 18th is my birthday too, and no, I'm not apologizing.


End file.
